


Kinktober Day 22: Formalwear/Overstimulation

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (No-one is surprised by now that they're switches right?), Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Edging, Established Relationship, Fireman Dean Winchester, Fluff and Smut, Knotting, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Rimming, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: “Is there something special you’d like to do for our anniversary, Dean?” Cas asks, curving into him. Dean sighs and tugs at Cas’s hip to rearrange them, grumbling ‘cause his belly’s gotten cold, and Cas lets him be the big spoon this time.“Surprise me,” Dean mumbles, teasingly.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 59
Kudos: 254





	Kinktober Day 22: Formalwear/Overstimulation

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo I had a rough day at work. So you know what? I didn't feel like writing Led Zeppelin. I felt like writing completely indulgent, rambly anniversary A/B/O smut. With TWO Kinktober prompts. Because I am a masochist, apparently.
> 
> QueerBluebird, this is (somewhat) based on your ProfoundBond prompt... I hope you like it! It's not BDSM, because that's not really what I write most of the time, so I hope loving husbandy fluff works for you instead!
> 
> This is very vaguely inspired by Koinophilia, and references some of the events in it. But you don't have to have read that for this (and I'm not actually sure the details match, to be honest; I might have to do a check at some point). There's no social commentary here, it's just two boyos being indulgent, happy, and lovin' on each other. 
> 
> Considering SPN, this may mean that they are very out of character. I'll do a reread again at some other time...

Dean’s pretty sure he has the best damned alpha partner there is. He says it a lot—teasingly—but on the inside? He means it.

It’s not just that Cas smells _so_ fucking good that Dean’s sometimes tempted to scent him in public, just lean into his neck and get a big whiff of leather and cinnamon, really get his mouth watering. He doesn’t actually do that—well, _mostly_ he doesn’t, even Dean’s not that rude, but when they’re amongst friends sometimes he doesn’t try to resist. (Even with Sammy glaring at them judgily across the table sometimes. Yeah, yeah, Dean knows he taught his own little brother better manners than that, but if Sam doesn’t want to scent _his_ own alpha all the time, that’s his dysfunction, not Dean’s. Eileen just smirks at them, anyway.)

Cas clearly can’t smell his own damned self, though, because if he could, there’d be no way he’d give Dean that confused look when Dean flings out an arm and grabs him by the back of his shirt to drag him back into bed some mornings.

(That expression is so fucking _cute_ that okay, sometimes Dean just pins Cas down and nuzzles the fuck out of him rather than getting himself knotted. But that’s okay, too. No-one has to know.)

Anyway, that’s the thing, right? Dean’s one of those lucky sonofabitches who has a mate he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve, but if this world’s gonna give Cas to him? Well, sure as fuck Dean Winchester ain’t stupid enough to say ‘no.’

He was already pretty sure about it before he had that last heat—even just remembering it kind of makes Dean blush; Jesus fucking Christ, he tackled his alpha to the kitchen floor and then spent the next three days getting so stuffed with cock that afterwards, they had to take two of the three sets of sheets down to the biohazard center. There was no way even hormonal detergent was going to get the scent permanently out of them ever again.

(Someone in their apartment complex whimpered when Cas walked by with the trash bag on the way to his car. Cas, ‘cause he’s _Cas_ , stopped and asked him if he was alright. Dean almost fell out of the window for laughing so hard.)

But the fact is, ever since Dean’s last heat, Cas has been _ambushing_ him.

Sort of.

Yeah, Dean might admit that that one might be his fault. Would he have done anything differently, keeping from Cas how dominant and pushy Dean gets when he's in heat? Well, probably not, and it turned out okay in the end. Dean’s a hell of an omega, he’s big and he’s dominant as fuck even when he doesn’t have Mother Nature playing hockey with his hormones. He’s never had _any_ expectation that anyone would be able to keep up with him when his heat’s got his brain and his balls in its grip. No-one ever had before.

Two differences, though: Cas didn’t just want to try—he really, _really_ did… but it didn’t seem to bother him one damned bit when, in the end, he couldn’t keep up. He fucking _submitted_ to Dean, went to his elbows and knees under him and moaned real quiet and low as he was getting fucked, and—

Dean doesn’t know how the hell Cas is even real sometimes.

But Cas has cogged, now, to the fact that there might’ve been some things that Dean didn’t tell him.

Case in point.

Dean’s mate has one foot on the coffee table, sketching on one of his big sketchpads, when Dean comes home from work and drops a kiss into his dark, messy hair (and, okay, sniffs him just a little for the pure pleasure of it). He appreciatively watches, over his shoulder, the way Cas’s big, graceful hands make washes of soft, warm colored pencil—Cas’s favorite medium—appear on the stiff, rough paper. He’s drawing flowers again.

Dean’s mate is a nerd. Dean’s not even gonna pretend he’s not into it.

So he _doesn’t_ expect Cas to look up at him and pin him with those blue, blue eyes. It’s the same look that Dean’s little artist turns on the specimens he’s cataloguing for the museum. Dean’s never been so glad to feel like a bug.

(What? He’s not exactly a delicate fucking flower.)

“Do you like biting?” Cas asks him.

Dean blinks and drags his brain up and out of where it tried to drop into his pants. “Uh… d’you mean…” wait, he can’t for the life of him think what Cas could possibly mean by that other than the obvious. “Do you mean biting or being bitten?” he finishes, then realizes that’s not even the point. Why’s he even asking?

“Either,” Cas answers, his hand stilling on his art, eyes sweet and serious.

“Both, I guess,” Dean answers, honestly. He gently nudges Cas’s foot off the coffee table with his toes. Cas forgets he’s not supposed to put his feet on the coffee table when he gets into what he’s doing.

Cas bows his head back to his drawing again, and his hand resumes its slow sweeps. The plumeria—Dean thinks it’s a plumeria—gets a bit of pink around the edges. Then, abruptly, Cas asks, “How hard?”

Probably as hard as it’s currently getting for Dean to keep his mind out of the gutter. “Hard enough to mark,” Dean says, his throat thick, tongue slow. “Not hard enough to break skin.”

“Where?”

Oh, _shit_. “Most places ‘cept my dick, I guess. But ‘specially my thighs and shoulders.” Dean swallows. In for a penny and all. “And, uh… I like leaving marks on you where people can see ‘em.”

Cas considers that, too, twirling his pencil in his hand in a way that, Dean’s not gonna lie, makes him want to suck on Cas’s fingers. He glances up again from his sketchbook, finally. Dean almost slams back against the chair he doesn’t remember sitting down in. “I like those, too,” he says, easily, which is a complete contrast from the dark _heat_ blazing in his blue, blue eyes. “Okay.”

Then he fucking _goes back to drawing_.

Dean’s pretty sure that Cas has no-one to blame but himself for the fact that it’s two days before they find his number 32 pencil in the couch cushions.

Next time: “You liked being inside me,” Cas says, as he’s gathering up their plates after breakfast (with how Dean’s shifts work, they don’t often get breakfast together, and Dean made bacon). “I enjoyed that, too. Very much. When can we do that again?”

Dean pauses, and he can’t even taste the bacon in his mouth anymore for how much his mouth just went dry. “Hey, angel?”

“Hmm?” Cas starts loading the dishwasher.

“How much trouble are you gonna get into if you’re late for work?” Dean asks, a little desperately.

“Quite a lot,” Cas answers. “We have a staff meeting first thing this morning.”

And Cas’s boss, Hanna, is sort of scary, and an omega male that not even Dean likes the idea of crossing. And if Cas comes in smelling like bourbon on a sugar cube, everyone’s gonna know exactly why he’s late.

Dean _still_ considers it.

Then, the next time, it’s _right_ before Dean’s about to go meet Sammy for dinner. Along with Sammy’s _boss_ , the DA for New York State.

“Dean,” Cas says, very seriously. “I’ve been doing some reading about certain positions that are particularly stimulating for the omega partner when—"

Dean jabs a finger at Cas’s nose. “Don’t you dare,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Cas blinks at him, all _innocence_ , pink lips just a little pursed at him and head tilted in confusion, and Dean does not believe that for one instant. Nuh-uh. Which is why he leans in, grabs Cas by the collar, and nips hard on his mate’s full, pouty upper lip.

He’s slammed against the back of the sofa so hard he almost topples over it, about ten seconds later.

Actually, that position Cas was reading about is pretty damned awesome.

(Yeah, he’s late for dinner.)

He thinks that’s about as bad as it’s likely to get, but then Cas has the fucking gall to ask what Dean thinks about dildos while he’s _brushing his teeth_.

It’s not that Dean’s _complaining_ , exactly. He’s not that stupid. He’s really not. And it’s been _really_ good, lately. They’re talking more—even if half of it is laughing, there’s nothing wrong with that. Cas kisses his mating mark on his way out the door—absently, like it’s something he never forgets, something he considers just a part of _Dean_ —and Dean’s heart goes so big he has to swallow it before he gets ready for his shift at the firehouse, ‘cause he gets teased for all the happy omega vibes he puts out.

Well, his squadmates can fuck their own knots, anyway. Dean never thought he’d have this. He still doesn’t know how he does.

But Dean can’t help but feel like all this is leading up to something. He’s itchy and excited for it, though, whatever it is, and even with all the sex they’re having, he’s _hungry_. And it isn’t like his heat. He’s not feeling out of control. He’s just…

Frankly, he can’t wait.

“Is there something special you’d like to do for our anniversary, Dean?” Cas asks a few weeks later, curving into him. Dean sighs and tugs at Cas’s hip to rearrange them, grumbling ‘cause his belly’s gotten cold, and Cas lets him be the big spoon this time. Dean kisses the back of that rumpled, dark head and snakes an arm around his alpha with a happy sigh, squishing firm abs underneath his palm.

Cas smells good, like he always does, but he smells so _content,_ warm and spicy with his scent mingling with Dean’s.

Their anniversary. Damn. Two years already. _Damn_.

“Surprise me,” Dean mumbles, teasingly, rubbing his face against Cas’s neck and shoulder to get his own scents just a little bit further in there.

Against his chest, he feels that good, deep vibration of Cas chuckling. “You know better than to give me that kind of leeway. What’ll you do if we end up at an art show again?”

“Hey, I kinda liked the last one!” Dean protests, “Until the artist started hittin’ on you.”

“Okay. I _really_ don’t think that’s what she was doing,” Cas sighs.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he chuckles and leans down to nibble at the nape of Cas’s neck, curving over just enough to put a bit of breath on the mating mark where Cas’s shoulder meets it. 

It’s an old argument, and it’s not that he ever thinks Cas would ever, _ever_ do anything about the fact that he gets hit on all the time. He wouldn’t, he just plain wouldn’t. But what the fuck, anyone who thinks they can sneak under Dean’s guard to get a little sniff of Dean’s sweet-smelling alpha mate has got another thing coming, and Dean’s omega sits straight up and starts growling at the very _thought_ of it.

Dean’s used to his inner omega having plenty of opinions. Up until he met Cas, though, he was also used to ignoring a lot of them.

Just for the record, it is _really_ fucking hard to ignore his inner omega when _want_ has Dean slick down to his knees.

Except the first time Dean told Cas he was hot, Dean’s sexy little artist looked alarmed, blinked down at himself like he wanted to check his own armpits, and asked Dean if he was _sweating._

(That moment might’ve been when Dean fell in love, but he’s not telling anyone that.)

For better or for worse, Cas is completely oblivious to how sexy he is, with that mussed up hair and a lower lip meant for biting, dark careless scruff that feels so good pretty much _everywhere,_ those serious blue eyes anyone with a hormone in their head knows can go dark and deep and so fucking dominant that Dean gets goosebumps thinking about it.

But Cas doesn’t play it up—for which Dean’s grateful a lot of the time. He goes to work wearing button downs in boring neutral colors that do absolutely fucking nothing for a _really_ nice, fit body, Dockers that would probably be a better style on someone twice his age, and, sometimes, a truly ugly pair of moccasins. On weekends, he steals Dean’s flannels.

Dean doesn’t _need_ to have his gifts wrapped up all pretty, so long as he gets to do the unwrapping.

So the last thing Dean expects is to come home on their anniversary with a bottle of strawberry honey-wine he special ordered for them, and open the door to the sight of Castiel Novak wearing a _suit_.

It’s dark blue, three buttons neatly done up. It fits him—which probably should surprise Dean if he thought about it, but there are no thoughts going through his brain right now, none _at all_ —and the white shirt he has underneath is crisp and pressed. His tie is messy, but it’s snugged right up to his buttons. He’s combed his hair. He’s shaved so clean there’s just the tiniest hint of darkness at the line of his jaw, his upper lip, the dimple in the middle of his chin. The dark fabric of the blazer clings delicately to where Dean knows lie the most perfect hipbones that ever existed, and the buttons going down the middle of that white, white shirt shimmer softly until they disappear under tie, inside slacks.

He’s so. Fucking. _Gorgeous_.

Dean tries to swallow his tongue. He fails. Okay, then he tries to swallow, _period_ , but since he’s pretty sure he’s drooling, he thinks he might be failing at that, too. The only reason Dean doesn’t drop the bottle he’s holding is that it’s in a little cardboard baggie hanging from his wrist.

Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_.

Dean’ll never forget the night they met—the _way_ they met, Dean stomping angrily around the ballroom of a museum fundraiser he got conned into purely ‘cause he’s Good Representation for the fire department. Dean’s not anyone’s token omega by any fucking means, and that’s just _bullshit._ Even before he went he already told Bobby that the next time the Mayor tried to pull that crap, Dean’s pretty omega ass is dropping his turnout gear and walking out the fire station door.

But if there was ever such a thing as kismet, that was it: being stuffed into a suit and thrown into this fucking boring fundraiser thing he had to be wrestled into going to, and almost quit his job over.

‘Cause Dean will _never_ forget looking across that ballroom floor and seeing Cas for the first time—crooked black bowtie on top of a plain modesty collar, shoulders hunched under his suit jacket, blue eyes so serious and just _daring_ someone to come and fuck with him. Dean’s inner omega isn’t much of a submissive sonofabitch—quite the opposite, thanks. But shit, even it could not decide whether it wanted to tease the fuck out of the guy until he’s snarling, or just drop and _present._

Dean remembers, at that exact moment, thinking “You’re mine, you’re _mine._ ”

Castiel Novak doesn’t believe in true mates. Honestly, until that very fucking instant, neither did Dean Winchester.

(Is he ever telling Cas or Sam or fucking _anyone_ that? Nope.)

So Dean’s mate smiling faintly at him across _their apartment,_ on _their anniversary_ but dressed in a suit—just the way he was on the night they met?

Shit. Oh, fucking shit.

Dean _thinks_ it’s his omega that makes that low, pained sound of want, but he’s not actually sure.

“Welcome home,” Cas says, warmly. “And happy anniversary, Dean.”

He isn’t wearing a modesty collar to mask his scent, just that button-down and tie combo that Dean wants to grab him in by. There’s just enough cloth covering his throat that Dean’s getting these tiny, tantalizing little whiffs of his scent, the sweet and savory of his cinnamon and musky leather, and it’s almost _worse_ than if he were fully collared up or just had his neck out.

He’s almost sure that Cas isn’t doing that sort of scent-teasing intentionally, but sometimes Cas really does surprise him. Ever since Dean’s last heat, he _knows_ Cas has been reading some stuff that makes him hurry up and hide it when Dean comes home after his shift. If Cas is reading alpha porn, Dean kind of wishes he’d share—that’s _hot_ —but if it has anything to do with the ambush questions, well, Dean’s still not sure he’s gonna survive the questioning. So he’s mostly let it go for now.

Dean swallows twice before he can talk again. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides, the string of the bag holding the wine bottle is biting into his wrist, and he hasn’t quite managed to move out of the entryway yet. “Uh… w-where are we… um, are we doing something special?” ‘Cause if so, Dean needs to go jack off in the shower before he gets dressed and they go anywhere in public, with his mate looking like someone who’d alpha down the Mayor herself.

“In a manner of speaking,” Cas answers. Fuck, he’s so cute, he looks so _pleased_ with himself. “I thought we could have our anniversary at home?”

“But you’re all dressed up,” Dean points out, dumbly. Oh, yes, Dean is the master and commander of the fucking obvious.

Cas looks down like he has to check. Which he actually might, Dean’s mate is a disaster at tying a tie, but that really ain’t the point here. “You say you like how I look in a suit,” he says, shyly. “But I could change if—”

“No. No, no no,” Dean stumbles out, hurriedly. “This is good, this is really… should I put one on, too?”

“Yes.” Cas brightens at him. “Yes, I’d like that,” he agrees.

Well, no-one ever said that Dean isn’t a possessive sonofabitch, but the look in Cas’s eyes when Dean comes out of their bedroom is so dark and so hungry that Dean almost reaches out a hand and just drags him back into the bedroom, damn whatever he had planned anyway. Especially since Dean left his emerald silk tie just a little loose—specifically so he could tighten it just as Cas’s eyes settle on the knot of it. That’s almost certainly Cas’s alpha that _rumbles_ , low as an earthquake, as Dean’s fingers bring the knot slowly upwards to settle against the warm, fragrant hollow of his throat and he shrugs his shoulders to settle his suit around him.

He’s pretty sure they’re both projecting _“mine all mine”_ so hard someone can smell them from down the hallway.

(Dean has no problem with that.)

But because they’re grown men and they have something like self-control, no-one drags anyone down onto the floor on their way back to the kitchen. Is this sort of weird that they’re having dinner at their own kitchen table wearing suits, the electric lights turned down and little tea candles lit up on every surface they’re not eating on (tea lights; Cas is definitely, a hundred percent, the nesting kind of alpha, and Dean’s _so_ into it)?

Probably.

Dean, with a mouthful of perfectly broiled Peter Luger steak—Cas went all the way to _Brooklyn_ for it—with German fried potatoes, his alpha sighing happily as he chews, their toes twined together under the table, does not give two shits what anyone thinks is weird or not. Even when Cas teases him into eating the creamed spinach.

Cas’s eyes go wide when Dean presents him with the vintage blown glass hourglass edged with antique reclaimed redwood—he gets that Cas likes his drafting table at work as bare as he clutters up the coffee table at home, but Cas is funny about time things—and the sketching wallet with its tiny set of colored pencils and charcoals and its little hand-sized sketchpad.

“These are…” Cas pulls out one of the pencils and looks up at Dean wide-eyed. “They’re Derwents. Like…”

Like Cas’s professional work set? Well, yeah.

“Hey, I pay _some_ attention!” Dean grumbles, but Cas looks like he might be about to either jump across the table and plaster Dean to the floor or _possibly_ drop to his knees and suck Dean off under the table.

He gets ahold of himself, though—damn—and stands up to blow out the lights, one at a time. Dean probably should help, but he’s enjoying watching the purse of Cas’s lips as each little candle flickers out, the way his back moves in the suit as the room gets more and more shadowy. He’s barely the outline of his jaw and the shadow of his cheekbones, the slow flow of his paler hands, by the time he gets to the light switch and warns, “Sorry.”

Dean’s not sorry. Cas is just as good in full light as he is by candlelight. It brightens up his eyes to the color of the silk of his tie, and he looks excited as he puts a little stack of boxes down in front of Dean.

The first one’s a necklace—the pendant shaped in a round-cornered rectangle, like dog tags, but made out of a stone with ripples of color that Dean’s pretty sure doesn’t come in nature.

“It’s fordite,” Cas tells him, turning it around to show Dean the layers of color and metal in it. “Motor agate, it’s called. They’re from the manufacturing plants? It’s all the layers of color that get onto the machines after they’re done painting cars. The artist chips them off and shapes and polishes them.” He beams, gummy and proud of himself for his find.

God, Dean loves him.

The second one makes Dean laugh, though. He waggles the package of bird poop remover wipes at Cas. “See, this is how I know _you_ love me.”

“You do have a rather unhealthy rage against pigeons,” Cas says, a little smugly. “Sam suggested that I get you a Bluetooth hookup for Baby, but I told him that you might ask to dissolve the mating bond if I did.”

There are days where Dean’s a little disturbed that his _mate_ knows him better than his goddamned _little brother_.

“I have, ah, one more gift for you,” Cas tells him, and his cheeks are the most goddamned adorable shade of pink when he presents Dean with a square, flat little box. “I really hope you like it.”

Dean doesn’t know what they _are,_ though, when he opens it, and he pulls what looks like three little rubber rings out of the box. One’s blue, one’s black, and one’s white. They’re soft… no, not rubber, maybe silicone? Smooth all around, but too big for a ring, too small for a bracelet—and Dean doesn’t wear any of those things anyway. Really stretchy, though. Is this something to organize his gear? That’d be just like him. Cas worries about him at work, even though he’ll never fuss about it, but Dean _has_ hose organizers and snaps and such for that…

When he looks over the kitchen table again, frowning and confused, Cas’s face is a three-alarm fire with no fire truck in sight.

And Dean _gets it_.

“Holy shit, sweetheart,” Dean chokes out. “Did you get me _cock rings_ for our anniversary?”

Cas’s blush has spread down to underneath his collar, now, but he still meets Dean’s eyes. “I studied up about, ah, a technique. That I thought you might enjoy.” Then Cas leans in, solicitous, like he legitimately thinks Dean’s brain has any blood left in it that hasn’t relocated suddenly down south. “Don’t you want to have your pie first, though, before we talk about this? I have it in the oven.”

In front of anyone else, Dean would probably deny that the noise he makes is a whimper. But Cas has made him whimper plenty of times. Hell, Cas has made him _scream._ “Sweetheart,” he grits out. “You can’t fucking make me make that choice.”

Cas smiles at him like Dean might actually be joking. But he brushes his fingers lightly across the back of Dean’s hand. His voice is deep and warm, and there’s just enough thrum of alpha in his tone that it raises the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. “Then we’ll talk about it while we’re having dessert.”

Oh, it’s like that, is it?

Dean’s damned omega practically runs in little happy circles at Cas serving them dessert—apple pie, of course, and whipped cream— _especially_ with the cock rings sitting in their little box on the corner of the table. Dean’s not normally into that kind of presentation dynamic, serving and being served, old-fashioned food stuff. Cas normally doesn’t offer, either, ‘cause he’s really not that kind of alpha.

So those earnest blue eyes go a little wider when he sits down and frowns at Dean’s full plate. “Dean?” he asks, sounding worried. “You’re not eating.”

Dean raises his chin, grins, and silently hands him the fork.

Yeah, Dean normally thinks that the alpha partner feeding their omega partner the first bite of anything that’s really good is kind of a stupid tradition. Dean can feed his own damned self, thanks. They _definitely_ don’t do it normally, though Dean knows a few couples who are gross like that in public when they’re feeling sappy. (Yes, Sam and Eileen, he’s looking at you two.)

But what the hell, it’s their anniversary, right? If they can’t hand-feed each other in their own apartment, they might as well not be fucking in it.

Cas’s expression is shy and so damned sweet when he raises the first forkful to Dean’s lips, holding his other hand underneath it to catch any bits of apple that Dean might miss. “I didn’t make the pie,” he admits, quietly, as Dean carefully scrapes his teeth against the fork to take the bite from him, and he has the gall to sound _embarrassed_ about it. “But I made the whipped cream.”

Dean chews and swallows, then takes the fork from Cas’s hand. He’s serious about it when he assembles the bite for his mate. He makes sure that there’s a good blob of everything on there, ‘cause in this situation that first nibble has damned well got to be _perfect_ : little bit of apple, bite of crust, little bit of whip.

Okay, maybe there’s something to this, because watching those _lips_ wrap around the fork Dean’s holding out to him, Cas’s small ‘mmm’ as he draws the pie off it, leaving a smear of pale whipped cream across the seam of his mouth before his tongue darts out to clean up, is…

Dean’s not sure they’re going to finish eating their pie.

It might be the first time in his life he’s said that, they finished the pie when he was _in heat_.

“You enjoy being knotted, don’t you?” Cas says, three bites in, and that’s it, Dean drops his fork.

Dean actually has to reach down and adjust himself at the sound of his mate’s dark, rough voice saying that. “Well, _yeah_ , sweetheart, of course.” Only the fact that Cas is looking earnest and sounding almost _matter-of-fact_ is making the sudden slick situation in Dean’s pants bearable right now.

The tiny pink tip of Cas’s tongue flickers out and wets his lower lip. “Have you ever been knotted without an orgasm?”

Dean blinks. “I… wait, what?”

“It’s a technique I read about—knotted edging.” Cas leans a little bit over the edge of the table as he talks. He swirls the tip of his index finger in the little runoff of cream at the edge of his plate, then looks down like he’s surprised he’s doing it. His finger is glistening when he raises it to his lips and licks it off, and it’s a quick enough motion that he might not actually be intentionally trying to make Dean’s brain explode. “It was first developed for relief in long-latency heats. But I think it sounded like it might feel _very_ good.”

Oh, okay, okay, _that’s_ where all of those books Cas is reading are coming from… and also explains why Cas was hiding them. Yeah, Dean knows he can be really sensitive about his heat, but it turns out he didn’t have to worry about it after all—and he really needs to get around to telling Cas that.

Some other time.

“How’s it, uh… different?” Dean _loves_ being knotted, he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t, and especially not to the guy who does all the knotting. But it seems like he’s missing something here. “Seems just sort of like getting knotted up by someone who can’t get me there, and I _know_ that’s not a problem for you.”

Cas considers. When he looks up at Dean through his eyelashes, his voice is low and soft and with just enough of a rasp that Dean’s breath does the same thing in his throat. “I’ll knot you. I’ll come inside you. And I’ll just keep you there, Dean, feeling my knot,” he says, with the same blunt deliberateness that he’d say ‘I love your freckles’ or ‘jasmine is my favorite flower.’ “Just holding it inside you. I’d like to see if we can just… hold you on the edge. I won’t have to stop pleasuring you. Until you can’t take it anymore and ask me to let you come.”

It’s a promise. It’s a _threat_.

“Would you like to try that?” he finishes.

Dean pauses. Swallows. Tries to talk. Tries again.

He ends up just fucking _nodding_ , because Dean’s not going to offer to bend over their kitchen table and beg, and he’s _really_ afraid that’s what his omega is going to make come flying out of his mouth.

Cas smiles. “Get me ready, then,” he murmurs.

This time, Dean grabs Cas by the knot of his tie.

Cas is licking his eternally dry lips by the time Dean all-but-flings him into sitting sprawled on the sofa, and hallelujah, Cas starts on his button and zip himself, ‘cause Dean’s hands are shaking with how much he wants. Dean drops to his knees so hard he’s sure he’s going to have bruises on them the next morning, and—

 _Skin_ , rather than cloth, peeks out at him through the cloth of Cas’s navy blue fly, and Dean almost faceplants right into his mate’s thighs.

“Shit. You really are out to kill me,” Dean rasps. His quiet, studious little alpha isn’t wearing a stitch of underwear under that killer suit. _Fuck._

“Hmm,” Cas says, smiling, and he sinks his fingers into Dean’s hair. “Would you believe me if I said I thought it would just be expedient?”

Dean’s already leaning in, his eyes falling half-closed at the gentle scratch of short, blunt nails against his scalp, just a little tug. “Right now, angel, you could tell me you’re gonna sprout actual wings and I might believe you,” he mumbles, and swallows him down in one stroke.

Dean’s had practice at this. He is very damned good—fuck _yeah,_ he practiced until he could get it all the way down, ‘cause it wasn’t about the length: Cas is _thick_. But Cas’s cock is already heavy and firming at the bottom when his lips meet it, so at least he’s not the only one who’s really, really into this. He holds there for long enough that his eyes are starting to water, until Cas’s hips twitch a little impatiently underneath him, looking for _motion_ , before Dean pulls almost all the way off with a gasp.

When he looks up again, shit, he didn’t think about how _this_ would look: Cas looking down at him hungry-mouthed in the dark—oh, they forgot to turn on the lights again, didn’t they? But even in just the thin light of the kitchen leaching into their living room, he’s so obviously still dressed in his suit, his tie draped careless to the side, legs in their dark slacks spread wide around Dean’s shoulders.

“If I’d asked _real_ nice,” Dean teases, “would you have let me do this the night we first met?”

“I don’t know. You were very intimidating,” Cas tells him, so damned honest that Dean has to smile. His thumb strokes along Dean’s hairline, his temple, swiping down his nose like he’s memorizing Dean’s face by touch. He guides Dean’s mouth back down against his cock, his thumb framing the corner as Dean opens for it and takes him in again. The touch at the stretched sweep of his lips is so _gentle_ that Dean moans from that alone. “And I rather like the way things turned out.”

Dean’s not going to argue about that. He’s _never_ gonna argue about that.

His jaw is aching happily and Cas’s hand in his hair has gotten firm enough to tug in little hot stings of electricity at his scalp by the time Cas presses himself back into the sofa and away from Dean, groaning “Enough, Dean, please,” And if Dean chases one last mouthful, getting his lips back around the head of Cas’s cock and giving one last messy slurp, well, no-one’s ever said that Dean isn’t a tease, either.

Dean’s pants are gonna be a lost cause—right through his boxers, ‘cause _one_ of them put on underwear—and he can feel the wet of them clinging to him when he slowly pulls himself back to his feet. Just _looking_ down at Cas is making him dizzy—still formally dressed, so the thick curve of his cock rising out through the spread V of his slacks, brushing against those neat pearl buttons of his shirt, looks particularly fucking obscene and _so_ tempting. The beginning of his knot is starting to go rosy and full at the base of him, just barely peeking out of the dark fabric. The dribble of Dean’s spit and Cas’s own precome is leaving translucent patches on the white dress shirt. Cas is watching him with his lips parted, his tongue resting just behind his teeth, and Dean doesn’t think he can blame the color of his eyes on the dim lighting.

“I know we’ve got plans, but one day,” Dean mutters, holding out a hand, “We’re going to fuck with you dressed _just_ like that, babe. Tie and all.”

“Oh,” Cas murmurs, and he uses Dean’s leverage to get to his feet out of the sofa. “I was just thinking the same about you.”

Dean’s only a _little_ bit sorry to get Cas out of his pretty clothes (though he does roll his eyes when Cas insists on hanging their suits back up; what’s the point, everything below the waist is going to the cleaner tomorrow) but not that sorry. A naked Cas in their bedroom lights? A fucking pretty creature, all dark hair and cheekbones, lean chest and big thighs and those fucking _hips_.

Dean’s a lucky, lucky asshole.

“How do you want me?” he asks. “Back? Belly?”

“I hope you’re not against tradition,” Cas says, putting the box of cock rings on the bedside table.

Now Dean _knows_ he’s getting teased by a certain sassy bastard, but he’s too horny to care. He doesn’t just drop to his knees and an elbow on their bed—and he hears Cas’s soft hiss when he does—but he reaches behind himself to grab one ass cheek. Dean’s not too proud to show off his hole for his alpha, all the slick that’s all over his ass and thighs.

Besides—Cas’s groan is revenge enough when he puts both hands on Dean’s ass, spreading him open and leaning close. Warm breath tickles across Dean’s tailbone, “Do you enjoy it when I lick you?” he murmurs, and places a little kiss on the rise of Dean’s right ass cheek.

What kind of a question is that? Dean turns and glares over his shoulder.

“You don’t seem to like it very much when I ask those questions when we’re _not_ in bed, so I thought I would try it now,” Cas adds.

Dean, most of the time, kind of loves that people have a hard time telling when Cas is being an earnest sonofabitch versus being able to deliver a line with a completely straight face. It’s not as much fun when _he_ can’t tell. But he’s not buying the oblivious act this time—yeah, Cas has held on for dear life and let Dean ride his cock to his horny little heart’s content, but Cas has also _quite literally_ fucked him onto his tiptoes over the kitchen table.

“Dude,” he complains.

Dean _thinks_ Cas smirks, but then he’s putting his tongue where his mouth is—well, so to—Jesus fucking Christ Dean just needs to stop _thinking_.

Then Cas’s tongue is _in_ him, and Dean really does stop thinking.

This? Dean does not call this rimming. Sure, his rim is _involved_ somewhere in this, but no. There aren’t any sweet, teasing licks around his hole, no kisses to the insides of his ass cheeks, no soft little sucks. This isn’t playtime, and it isn’t warm-up.

What this is being opened up by his mate’s _tongue_ —stretched broad and vulnerable by a single hard press of it, then _fucked_ by it in messy, deep plunges. It doesn’t feel anything like Cas’s fingers, or like his cock, or like anything else in the whole goddamned world—slip and slide and constant motion, the heat of Cas’s breath as Dean’s mate pants, just enough _give_.

It’s so tempting to just let Cas take him apart. Hell, Dean’s running so hot he might even be able to come just from this, these shallow, wet little shoves in and out of him. He pushes his hips back to open himself up further, and the vibration of Cas groaning happily against him? Yeah, that’s definitely his rim feeling _that_ , and—

And they wanted to try something. What was it? They wanted—

“S-stop, Cas, stop, I’m really close—” Dean chokes.

One thrust sweet enough to make Dean gasp later, Cas stops. Just like that, he pulls back fast enough that Dean almost topples backwards onto him from where he was braced against the press of him. But Cas catches him with a hand on his hip.

They’re both breathing through it for a little too long.

“I don’t know if this is going to work,” Cas mutters, wiping his chin. He looks at his fingers, then casually sucks them clean. Dean’s mouth waters. It’s not that he likes the taste of his own slick—it’s fine, he doesn’t mind it—but watching the way _Cas_ likes it, fuck. “I almost didn’t stop.”

“I almost didn’t tell you to,” Dean agrees—then he grins. “This is gonna be _awesome._ Get in me.”

The sound of Cas laughing is almost as good as getting fucked.

(Dean revises that thought as Cas pushes into him.)

Dean’s body is so used to just taking Cas in, and he _loves_ this—barely needs any prep anymore, and he sure as hell doesn’t need any lube. Doesn’t mean that Cas doesn’t feel _big_ in him, and with all the opening he got being from that amazing, evil tongue, Dean is really, really… sensitive. _Fuck_.

He has to get Cas to stop once more before he’s even bottomed out.

“You’re so responsive tonight,” Cas murmurs, into the soft spot between Dean’s shoulder blades, and Dean doesn’t know if it’s the tone of Cas’s voice or the gentle hand his mate is running up and down his side and his thigh that makes him want to wriggle more.

“Yeah, well…” Dean can’t exactly disagree with that. He chokes out a low laugh, though. “Guess you’re just that good, sweetheart.”

Alright, so Cas isn’t the only sassy bastard between them. That makes Cas snort, his forehead dropping down between Dean’s shoulder blades, and _that_ —the sound of his mate chuckling against him, then nipping him just lightly enough that it’s playful, not a tease—eases Dean off the electricity edge enough to let Cas the rest of the way in.

Dean’s not the only one on the edge, though. Which is a good thing— _is_ that a good thing?—because Cas takes him long and slow and leisurely, all the way from tip to base, and Dean can feel the delicate push of his growing knot at the base of him with every. Damned. Stroke.

It’s too slow to get Dean off, the angle too easy to do more than rub little pushes against his prostate. Cas pulls on Dean’s hips when Dean whines, tries to grind at the mattress under him (it’s a reflex, he can’t help it) to get them off the bed. Dean’s cock dangles under him, and he glances down, watching it sway and drip as he lets himself get _fucked_.

Okay, getting just _used_ for his mate’s slow pleasure with no expectation that Cas is going to get him off before his knot pops? Dean didn’t think he’d be this into it, but his rim flutters gently around the base of Cas’s cock even just thinking about it, kissing at the growing bulge of him.

Like a reward—or maybe like a punishment—Cas pops it _just_ deeply enough into him that it’s the most fucking delicious hint of stretch, and it coming out again is even worse. Or better. Holy shit Dean’s signals are crossed right now.

He knows Cas’s knot is big. Hell, just proportionally that makes sense. He just never thought much about _how_ big. He never thought about how it builds slow, slow, a little bit more pressure each time, until the pace is rapid enough he can feel Cas chasing his pleasure. He’s not pulling all the way out anymore—Dean’s not sure he even could, because each time he’s at the pull end of his stroke it’s not just a stretch, the pressure of it yanking against his rim is taut, _trembling_. Has it always been this way? Did Dean just have no idea ‘cause he’s normally so busy jerking off? Maybe— _holy fuck_.

“Dean,” his mate moans, shuddering, shivering, and Dean rebalances and reaches a hand back. Cas grabs hold, gripping tight at his fingers, and moans. “I’m, I’m— _oh._ ”

Even though Dean’s not going to come, the deep, heady pop of pressure in him, filling, feels like a reward—then he’s almost too full, stretched taut, and Cas’s knot grinds hard enough on his prostate that Dean doesn’t just see a drop or two bead up at the tip of him: he sees a dribble of it, trailing a slick stream into a puddle under him before the sheets suck it in.

He can’t always feel Cas coming inside him. Most of the time, Dean’s most of the way to coming or all the way there, so maybe he’s just not paying attention? But he feels it now. The wet, shuddering rush of it in his ass, thicker than his own slick. The _pulse_ of it, matching deep rhythms to the flutter Dean can feel at his fingertips from where Cas is gripping his hand.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he slurs, pushing his face into his forearm. That’s intense. That’s really, that’s really… oh God.

Cas settles in on top of him, knotted, and it’s like every time he’s done it before. They rearrange, and Dean’s body won’t do what he wants it to—it’s Cas who pulls at his hip, topples them both heavily. Dean’s body thinks it should be familiar, but the rub inside him doesn’t let him just settle into it, his body wanting— _craving_. He only doesn’t reach down for his cock because he glances down, and Cas’s hand is on his belly, like a reminder. He doesn’t get to touch. No. Not yet.

“I think you’re too erect for us to put one of the rings on you,” Cas tells him, a low rumble just underneath Dean’s right ear. The hand on Dean’s belly trails downwards, cupping Dean’s cock very gently.

“’Nother time,” Dean mumbles. Is squirming gonna make it better or worse? He tries it. Oh fuck. Both. Definitely both. It gives him the pressure of Cas’s hand, and the knot in his ass rubs and _rubs._ “I, uh… just want your skin, right now.”

“Mmm,” Cas murmurs, a low, happy purr. “I like that, too. Shall we get started?”

Started. Fuck, _started_.

Dean’s inner smartass wants to ask “So what was the last hour, tea and crumpets?” but then Cas’s finger skirts up him from base to tip.

Just one finger.

Dean wants to sob.

That finger traces up and down his length, spirals around him, nowhere _near_ enough, before Cas’s thumb settles gently along that little band on the underside of Dean’s cock. Cas rubs it, gently, like he rubs Dean’s back when he’s trying to wake Dean up without getting growled at.

He's gonna get growled at.

“Cas…”

Or maybe whined at.

Cas drops a kiss on Dean’s nape. It feels like a threat. “I need you to let me know when you’re close, Dean.”

“C-can’t,” he mumbles, then shudders all over as Cas starts tracing around and around the hole at the tip of his cock with his thumb. He doesn’t press against it, or into it, but the spreading and pressing, spreading and pressing of an area Dean didn’t realize was that sensitive… well, he was wrong. He tries to shove forward into Cas’s hand—

The pressure of it yanks Cas’s still-swollen bulge against his rim, and Dean’s whole body shudders as his toes curl. But his body won’t move forward, stuck in place on his alpha’s knot. He _can’t_ fuck any harder into Cas’s hand.

“You can, Dean,” Cas says. “You will.”

Cas _is_ just as serious as he looked the first time Dean met him. Sure, he’s dominant as all get-out, but he never seems like he feels he’s got to prove it. He doesn’t try to be all scratch-and-sniff about it the way a lot of guys who aren’t real confident in their knots do.

He doesn’t feel like he’s _gotta_ be rough or nippy to prove what a big, strong alpha he is, so when he is? When he gives _commands_? Oh, _fuck yes_.

“Mm! It feels so good when you do that, you know,” Cas murmurs, and he closes his whole hand around Dean’s shaft. His skin is smooth except for his pencil calluses, but the delicate rasp of them makes the blood start to ring in Dean’s ears. “Try again.”

“ _Cas_ ,” he whimpers. Pleads.

But he does as his alpha says.

Oh, that’s good. That’s so fucking good. Within a few seconds, the tunnel of Cas’s hand is so slick and hot with Dean’s precome. Dean can only move in tiny little increments with Cas propped inside him like this, but every little bit of motion just pulls at him, hot-bright, and he’s so… “Close, close—”

Cas takes his hand away. He puts it on Dean’s hip, the wet warm of it like torture, like a tease. Stops him from moving.

This time, Dean _yowls_.

The next time, Cas just rubs his frenulum until Dean wonders if it’s possible to just drip himself dry—just empty his balls out that way. He’s never come like this—never just from one little spot, traced in a circle over and over again until he’s panting and straining, but he can, he _can_ —

Cas stops.

Long, slow strokes, head to shaft to base, a brief, playful tug at Dean’s balls to ease them away from his body where they’re drawn tight. He thinks he hears Cas ask if he can touch Dean’s nape. Shit, Cas can do whatever he wants to him right now, as long as he doesn’t stop—

Cas stops.

There are teeth gently, so gently, nibbling on the nape of his neck, and the electricity is higher up than that deep throb of pressure in Dean’s ass. Dean can’t remember why he doesn’t like that sometimes. Because he likes it very fucking much now. When Cas’s fingertips worry gently at Dean’s pink, perky nipples—perkier now—it makes his back arch, and Dean remembers being full, being _held_.

Cas _stops_.

The time after that, he doesn’t touch Dean’s cock at all. He presses a finger to where Dean’s stretched tight around him.

He presses it _in_. Just a little. Then a little more. He doesn’t open easily, but he opens all the same, and Dean breathes into it.

Dean thinks Cas might be touching his own knot, stuffed into Dean, the heavy silky wet of Dean’s slick, his own come around it. The thought is so fucking hot that Dean spurts a little, but he likes where he is. He tells his alpha before it’s too much. He does, and Cas pulls out the finger.

Dean’s disappointed, but only a little.

“Oh, _Dean._ You’re beautiful,” Cas tells him, and kisses his nape. “You’re so good.”

Yes, he is.

Dean’s floating, his pelvis so tight he doesn’t know when it’s ever gonna unwind, but that’s good, too—that’s good, Cas is bracing him, one hand tucked under Dean and resting on his stomach and the other caressing lightly at Dean’s nipples. He’s _almost_ floated all the way down—or up—or he’s not even sure which way is up, but he might be shaking all over.

He's not sure he still needs to come. He’s not sure he still _wants_ to. It’s trembling on the edge of too much and too little, but he knows that the fullness of Cas in him in starting to settle a little. He doesn’t think it’s just him getting used to it.

Dean makes a soft, disappointed noise.

“We’re not done yet, beloved,” Cas murmurs, and his voice is shaky. “You’ve been so wonderful. You’ve been so patient, and you feel so good. Would you like to come?”

Dean loves hearing him sound like that—not unsure, but like Dean’s taken him apart, too, the way Dean’s going to pieces and he has to trust—he has to _know_ —that Cas’ll put them back together again. Better than before, maybe.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes.

Cas _tugs_.

It’s sharp, and sudden. It’s the first sharp motion in a long time, what feels like forever—the first jolt of _sensation,_ not just that good, sweet tightrope pressure. Dean’s whole body remembers how much he likes that, Cas yanking and pulling at them hard like that—that unbelievable stretch that’s so close to pain that it’s pleasure, in one electric firework instant. But Cas’s knot has gone down _just_ enough, settled _just_ enough that it—slips—slides—

Dean chokes on the sensation, his hole stretched right where it’s most sensitive, so full, _tight_ , and it feels like he’s got a fucking _baseball_ sitting right at his rim—

Cas shoves it back in.

And Dean’s _gone_. His body knows this, but it’s like the difference between the high board of a pool and fucking _skydiving,_ spinning, a little out of control. He’s gone, his back is moving in spasms so fierce he’s afraid he’s going to crack his head against Cas’s nose—Cas, though, Cas has him, clutched close enough that they’re molded and there’s nowhere for Dean to go, no way for Dean to hurt him. He’s rubbing gently at Dean’s cock now. It’s not a stroke, that would be too _much_ , but those soft touches draw come out of Dean like he’s petting the spurts of it out.

When Dean’s himself again—when he’s thought and not just, well, shit, he doesn’t know what the fuck that was, Cas is panting against the back of his shoulder. He’s trembling. No, that’s Dean. No, that’s—wait, did Dean black out? He doesn’t—no, he definitely did—except—what?

Cas is still in him. Dean shifts his hips, confused. Cas is still in him, he’s definitely still got a fully hard cock, and what the fuck?

They’re still _tied_.

Dean’s memories of the last few moments may not be the sharpest, but he _knows_ he felt Cas’s cock coming down, ‘cause no matter how enthusiastic Dean is? Without prep and very intentional stretching—they’ve never tried it, but Dean knows it’s _possible_ —there’s no fucking _way_ Cas could’ve yanked his knot out of Dean like that.

“Sweetheart?” he mumbles. “Are…” did he lose time somewhere? Is that what happened? Shit, that’s only happened to Dean before when he’s been in heat, and he’s done things like bite Cas’s thighs so hard he wouldn’t wear jeans for a week after them.

Cas sounds choked. “Oh. I didn’t… I didn’t realize…”

Dean’s mate—who seemed like he was keeping it together _really_ fucking well—sounds wrecked enough that a brief moment of alarm actually manages to break in a spark through the white, dozy haze that has taken over the majority of Dean’s entire being.

“I… I think I…” Cas presses towards him again, and Dean… yeah, he knows that feeling. His rim flutters, gently, pleasantly. He’s gonna be so sore. Fuck, _yes_.

It’s getting kind of hard to think again. Dean thinks that might be because he wants to pass out for real, though. “Why’s… your knot’s still up?” he mumbles.

“I think when you orgasmed, I…” Cas doesn’t sound like he knows whether to be scared by this or delighted. “I think I came again. Oh. _Dean_.”

“You mean we’re knotted again?” Dean wonders how much effort it’d take to reach down and grab a blanket. Too much. He’s got a warm, horny alpha at his back and stuffed into him. That’s more than enough.

“I… yes? I’m sorry,” Cas says.

Okay, that one makes Dean’s eyes pop open.

Only Cas. _Only_ Cas.

“If you apologize again I’m gonna bite you, and _not_ in the way you like,” Dean slurs, curling his completely boneless limbs around himself and settling his ass the rest of the way into the cradle of Cas’s. “’Cause you’re the best fuckin’ alpha there is.” And he feels the smile that curves his whole face—so completely sappy, and Dean does not give a single crap that it is. He snuggles in. “Happy anniversary, Cas.”

“I love you,” Cas answers, kissing his ear—simple like that, because to him, that’s all there is.

Since one last thin dribble of come rolls down the tired, slippery base of Dean’s cock after that, Dean can _maybe_ admit he’s kind of into that, too.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Ahaha, please be forgiving, this has not been beta read or re-read in any way... I'm going to sleep!
> 
> For QueerBluebird's prompt/suggestion: a/b/o BDSM scene where the alpha knots the omega without letting him come and proceeds to spend the duration of the knot gently edging the omega. Bonus points if the omega squirming/etc makes the alpha come more than once. Extra bonus points if they've learned to time the omega's orgasm with the end of the alpha's knot because the sensation/pheromones/whatever will make the alpha knot again without a refractory period
> 
> If you're so inclined to share in the madness, come join us in the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond).


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